


On a Sunday Morning

by moonyxlupin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cute, Dean Winchester - Freeform, F/M, Fluff, Jared Padalecki - Freeform, Jensen Ackles - Freeform, Misha Collins - Freeform, SPN - Freeform, Sam Winchester - Freeform, Supernatural - Freeform, castiel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 14:32:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10721238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonyxlupin/pseuds/moonyxlupin
Summary: It’s difficult to get up on a Sunday, but you’ve got duties to attend. Misha doesn’t want you to go at all, but he has to accept that his stupidly adorable face doesn’t work all the time.





	On a Sunday Morning

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a 1k follower challenge on Tumblr, so you can find this on my blog, too, winchesterbusiness.tumblr.com. I'll probably be posting more writing there in the future, and I now take requests there, too, so drop me a message!

Hearing the familiar beeping of your alarm, you let out a growl of annoyance, slipping from Misha’s embrace into the cool air of your shared bedroom. You trembled slightly, cursing your decision to leave the bedroom window open overnight. The chill that came from the four am rainfall had crept in, and all you wanted to do was crawl back under the sheet and wrap yourself up in the welcoming warmth of Misha’s arms.

Your eyes adjusted to the dim morning light. The numbers on your phone’s screen read 06:55 and you internally groaned, gently pressing the tip of your thumb against the glass to silence your alarm. Looking over your shoulder to where Misha lay, a small smile tugged at your lips as you saw he was stirring from his slumber.

You exhaled softly, treading carefully over to the clothes dresser, pulling open a drawer, your attention focused on the outfit you had put together the night before. It was the week before your father’s sixty fifth birthday, and today was the only day you had free to join in on the celebrations.

Smiling to yourself, you pulled out the floral shirt you had neatly folded, placing it at the foot of your bed, your eyes unintentionally flickering over to Misha’s form. His hands were over his face, and you bit down on your lower lip to hold back the giggle that threatened to escape your lips. You pulled your black jeans from the dresser, placing them on top of the shirt, waiting for Misha to say something, anything. Usually, he didn’t mind getting up in the morning, but Sundays were a different story.

“Y/N,” he sighed, pulling his hands from his face. “It’s too early.” He groaned, like a child, sitting up. The blanket that lazily clung to his body moved with him, and you couldn’t help but imagine yourself straddling those glorious hips of his.

Shaking those thoughts from your head, you smiled. “Sorry, baby.” You replied, slipping your pyjama shirt over your head, throwing it to the side of the room. “You can go back to sleep if you want.” Sympathy was clear in your voice, and Misha sighed thoughtfully, rubbing his face with a large, calloused hand as he focused his eyes on you.

“It’s alright,” he smiled, watching you carefully as you hooked your bra behind your back, his tongue running across his bottom lip. “I love you,” he grinned, looking directly at your breasts as he did. You rolled your eyes playfully, throwing your, now unfolded, shirt over your head, making sure it was nice and presentable. If it was one thing your mother hated, it was unironed, untidy appearances.

“When you’re not staring at my boobs when you say that, I’ll believe you.” You retorted, making Misha throw his head back, his laughter echoing, bouncing from wall to wall. It was almost infectious, how he laughed.

He slid out of bed as you stood in your pyjama shorts and your formal shirt. It was your turn to watch him, he was dressed in grey sweatpants and he remained shirtless, and if you weren’t so caught up with being on schedule for your father’s birthday breakfast, you could have jumped him there and then.

Misha approached you, and you could smell a cocktail of stale cologne and yesterday’s shower cream, mixed with something that was just so Misha. You pressed your hands gently against his chest as his arms wound around your waist, pulling you flush against him, sharing body heat as he kissed the top of your head.

“I love you so much,” you whispered as he bowed his head so his lips could easily reach yours. When your lips touched his, all you could feel was electricity coursing at a high speed throughout your veins. “But I have to get ready.” You said into the kiss. Misha made a noise of frustration in return, pulling away slightly, still holding you close.

And then he did it. The bastard went and did it. He stuck out his lower lip ever so slightly, making himself look sad. He cast his wonderfully blue eyes down to the floor, making you whine in protest. “Misha!” You groaned, pressing your forehead to his, your hands moving from his chest to cup his face. “Don’t do the puppy dog face!” You begged, giggling quietly as he just stuck out his lower lip further. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he laughed, breaking his act as he pressed his lips to yours softly. “And even if you did, I’d still love you. Now go and put your pants on, because if you don’t, I swear to God…”


End file.
